


See the Possible (Taste the Rainbow)

by Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Fic, Possibly Pre-Slash, Remix, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-22
Updated: 2007-05-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5491103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/pseuds/Rachael%20Sabotini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friendship in Five Sense</p>
            </blockquote>





	See the Possible (Taste the Rainbow)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [See the Possible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792) by [Pouncer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pouncer/pseuds/Pouncer). 



> Thank you to elynross for doing the beta. This story was part of the 2007 remix exchange.

  
_1\. Taste_  
  
For Rodney, first contact missions are usually dull. Few villages have any real technology to speak of, other than the occasional pile of left-over ancient tech; he frequently spends most of the trade negations curled over his laptop working on his minesweeper score. The current 'civilization'--and Rodney uses the term loosely--is no different, but at least the team arrives in the middle of a village fair. Traders from several worlds are present, and Rodney has a grand time searching through the booths to find things of interest.  
  
He leaves Ford and Teyla behind...somewhere, reviewing sample trade goods and showing off what Atlantis could afford to part with, while Major Sheppard keeps pace as Rodney darts through the colorful carts and booths, banners bright and crisp in the mid-afternoon sun. The major does whatever it is he does while Rodney works on energy readings. At least Rodney doesn't have to entertain him while there is real work to be done.  
  
Unfortunately, as far as possible Ancient tech and energy sources go, the place is a huge pile of nothing. Rodney glares up at the colorful pennants waving in the breeze, shaking his head at the booths and carts with all of their displayed wares. Great. Leather, fabric and, oh, look, _metal_ tools. There are some real technological whiz-kids here.  
  
"There's nothing here," Rodney says, putting his scanner away with a snap of his wrist; he wonders if that will ever get old.  
  
"Any interesting energy readings?" Sheppard shifts and scratches at his long, lean thighs.  
  
Rodney pinches the air between his thumb and forefinger. "Not even the tiniest amount." A scent on the air makes Rodney perk up, and he throws a hand out to stop Sheppard mid-step. "Do you smell that?"  
  
Sheppard inhales deeply, looking puzzled. "Smell what?"  
  
Rodney spots a group of people with large waxed paper cones leaving one of the booths, laughing and popping small white round-things in their mouths; the scent and the sight makes Rodney's mouth water. "Oh, my."  
  
Rodney is aware of Sheppard following him as he cuts a forceful beeline for the booth. "What do we have for money?" he calls out to as he strides past the locals, occasionally bumping against someone in his haste to reach the line.  
  
"Uh, those octagonal copper things, and some of the silver triangles." Sheppard offers Rodney a half-dozen coins in the flat of his hand once they stop. "It would be a lot easier if there was some sort of galactic standard."  
  
"Teyla said that these would work most places that have a fixed price." Rodney pulls the copper coins out of the major's hand. "Thank god we don’t have to bargain." Bouncing onto his toes a little so he can see better, Rodney can see long aluminum trays with little balls of deep-fried dough, just waiting to be eaten. "Do you want any?" He says, glancing back at Sheppard.  
  
"Any what, Rodney?" Sheppard's got his arms folded across his chest, and doesn't appear interested in standing on tip-toe to find out.  
  
Rodney gets to the front of the line and waves at the aluminum trays covered with what looked like cinnamon and plain balls of dough. He holds out his coin-filled palm out to the blonde woman who was serving so she can pick out what she needs. "Beignets."  
  
There are two men in the back of the booth, a younger one with thick black hair who rolls the dough into a thick log, and then pinches and twists off small sections that an older man then drops into a heavy black iron kettle; the liquid inside pops and sizzles each time a piece is added. Once the dough log is all in the kettle, he then stirs the mixture with a thick wooden paddle while the dough browns . A younger woman, possibly a daughter, scoops out the golden-colored fried dough using a wire-mesh spoon and drops it onto one of the aluminum pans. She takes a huge ceramic shaker and sprinkles the tray with some sort of granular topping, then lightly tosses the mixture in the air, flipping it over like a bunch of pancakes. She sets the tray down next to the near empty ones, and Rodney can see there are several varieties beyond what he's ordered: a sticky glaze with nuts, some sort of spice, and what looked like finely-ground sugar.  
  
The place smells incredible; Rodney breathes deeply, letting the scents mix and fill him. He slides a smile at Sheppard, who seems as stunned as Rodney at the sight. As soon as the woman hands him the two waxed paper cones full of fried bread, Rodney shoves the plain ones at the Major, then reaches in and pops one of the sugared ones in his mouth. Sweet and rich, with honey and something like cardamom in the dough. Rodney licks at his fingers before popping the next one. Definitely a sugar coating.  
  
Sheppard laughs, and Rodney blinks at him; he must have closed his eyes while he was savoring the food. It was okay, though, as Sheppard grins at him, stuffing one of the dough balls into his mouth. "Hey, that's pretty good."  
  
"Isn't it?" Rodney has to leave his mouth open a second, as the one he just bit into is still hot. Sheppard steers them around the next set of people wanting to get at the beignets, and out into the main path back to the trading center.  
  
"Should we save any for Ford and Teyla?" Rodney asks, staring at his dwindling pile.  
  
Sheppard's brow furrows. "We can always tell them where we found it, right?"  
  
Blissfully Rodney sighs his agreement around his mouth full of sweetened fried bread. "If only they had coffee to go with it."  
  
  
_2\. Sight_  
  
Rodney's favorite lab is at the base of one of the less-frequented towers on the east pier. He likes to go there when people are making him crazy, being more stupid than normal. He tells himself that he likes the quiet, the silence, the lack of distractions. He doesn't like to admit how much he needs to get away.  
  
And if, perchance, sometimes Sheppard and his new teammate Ronon happen to swing past it while they work out... Well, Rodney is well-warned by the steady pound of footfalls in the normally-silent corridors. He can slide into the doorway and watch as they move past, laughing and talking, pitching each other shit. John is sweaty by then, the black shirt sticking to his chest and back; his hair looks even worse than usual, while Ronon lopes along fresh and easy, like a lion on the Serengeti.  
  
It takes three or four seconds for them to pass, and the moment they're gone, the image slips away; Rodney returns to his work then: silent, alone, and happy.  
  
  
  
_3\. Touch_  
  
Rodney knows that the gene therapy works before he has empirical proof. There's an itching, a buzzing at the back of his mind, like a low-level electrical oscillation. He's heard Sheppard describe the sensation as a toddler tugging at him to pay attention, but Rodney's never been all that fond of kids. To him, it feels more like his cat has come back from a long night of hunting, staring at Rodney while impatiently waiting for his food dish to be filled, ready to dart in and strop Rodney's legs if it's required to get what he wants.  
  
Rodney can live with that.  
* * *  
  
Rodney is so used to thinking of him as 'Major Sheppard,' it takes him a little time to adjust to the whole 'lieutenant colonel' concept. But Sheppard is so obviously pleased each time his title is mentioned that Rodney makes an effort to remember; he knows what it was like the first time he got a Ph.D., and he knows how annoying it is when people refuse to use appropriate and respectful titles. But it's hard, and each time he forgets, Sheppard looks a little down; Rodney wishes he were better with names. He also wishes there were some way to make it up to the major...to Sheppard. To John.  
  
Atlantis nudges him as soon as he gets back, a vaguely fond flicker of attention that paces and yowls and maneuvers Rodney straight into the chair room after a week of spending time with Zelenka refining power distribution. Atlantis sparkles and hums, metaphorically rolling on his back, eager and willing for Rodney to pet his vulnerable belly.  
  
It gives Rodney an idea.  
* * *  
  
  
"We've never been able to measure what the chair can do under full power," Rodney says, taking John's arm and leading him over to the command chair. "Just sit down and relax. It'll be fine." He drops John's arm and pats his back, humming softly to himself as he drags out his laptop.  
  
"Are you sure about this?" Sheppard says, and his voice quivers slightly.  
  
"Of course I am, colonel," Rodney says. "Just let me get this hooked up. Ah, there we go." He waves at John to sit down, and hesitantly, John does.  
  
He can feel how Atlantis springs out at Sheppard, all warm eagerness, a kitten with a new playmate. The tension and surprise written in Sheppard's body soon eases, and a small, tired smile plays over his lips. Rodney's forgotten by both of them, but it doesn't matter; this is the next best thing to working the interface himself. Rodney asks for details on schematics and crystals and circuits, on what toys Atlantis has for them to play with, and John responds, happily bouncing from place to place in the city, sharing everything he's given, his delight and wonder infectious.  
  
By the end of the day, Rodney's cheeks are tired from smiling so much, and John just keeps grinning back at him.  
  
  
_4\. Smell_  
  
Rodney would trade the gut-churning, faux-lemon scent of some good cleaning products for about anything right now, including a good cup of coffee. But he's not sure if the "clean" scent that everyone wants would be enough to cover the scent of blood and sweat and--other stuff, stuff that Rodney really doesn't want to mention.  
  
Mostly, though, he just wants John to stop bleeding. He swallows hard, pressing his hand against the field dressing that he's wrapped around the wound in John's thigh and ignoring the carcass of the leopard-bear thing next to them. "Hey! You with me?" Rodney shouts, wincing at the cavern's echo. "Colonel Sheppard?"  
  
John blinks and raises his eyes to meet Rodney's. His gaze is unfocused, and Rodney's concerned about a concussion. How many times did those footballers hit their heads before they developed Alzheimer's and Parkinson's and other brain diseases? Is Sheppard getting close to that amount?  
  
"It'll be okay," John mumbles, patting at the dressing on his thigh. "I'm good."  
  
"You are not good," Rodney corrected. "You are stoned." He holds up the empty injector, then shoves it back in his pack. "It's the morphine I gave you."  
  
John nods carefully. "Good stuff." His head falls back; Rodney sticks his hand under it, cushioning the fall and winced as the tiny rocks grind into the back of his hand. It's worth it if he saves a few of John's brain cells. Sheppard needs as many as he can get.  
  
"You are such a freak," he mutters. He brushes away the worst of the rocks and gently lays John's head on the ground; the scent of open bowel reaches him, and he has to take a few deep breaths to keep himself calm. It's the thing, he tells himself, not John. He already checked, and there's nothing perforated that he can find; John's okay except for the huge, crater-like gashes on his thighs.  
  
He's going to puke, he knows he is. If only he had a paper bag or something to breath into. Why didn't they make that standard equipment in the emergency kit?  
  
"Because paper bags are hard to come by on Atlantis."  
  
Rodney freezes and looks at John. "Did I say that out loud?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Thank God you're drugged, because if you remember, I'll swear it's a hallucination."  
  
"You're all heart, McKay." John winces, his face screwing up and freezing momentarily in a full-color illustration of pain; Rodney's breath catches in his throat, as well, as if he by some crazy, sympathetic magic his breathing is synced to John's.  
  
The moment John can breath again, Rodney does, too. John turns his head and closes his eyes, his voice shaky, his breath raspy. "Fuck."  
  
Rodney's own voice is high and tight, his words tumbling out as he wipes the blood off his hands and checks the field dressing. "Ronon and Teyla will be back soon with Beckett, and you will be _fine._ " The word echoes in his head. There's too much blood, too damn much blood. It's starting to pool around John's leg, and fuck, maybe he missed something. Maybe there's another cut somewhere, or maybe one of those claws really did sink into John's abdomen. He frantically pulls at John's shirt, rolling him to his side to check, ignoring the small cries that John makes.  
  
John won't die, he tells himself. He's not going to let that happen. There is another scratch, and Rodney digs into the field kit again, pulling out another dressing and antibiotic cream. It seems ridiculous to do this again, clean the wound, bandage it and press his hands against it with all of his strength to try and stop the bleeding. He closes his eyes to focus as much as he can on willing the wound to close; his entire world becomes darkness with the smell of the antiseptic, the cream, the stagnant water, the damp fur, and all of the blood around him.  
  
And the feel of John's bare skin under his hands. Rodney can feel the pulse of his heart as his fingertips slip off the bandage.  
  
John won't die, he tells himself. He won't.  
  
  
_5\. Sound_  
  
Ancient technology is silent compared with earth technology. Fans hum and keys click, there's the slide and whisper of switches and buttons, and the squeak of insulated cable. Crystal technology isn't like that; it's silent, motionless, serene, which is why Rodney loves working alone in his own lab.  
  
Except when the silence is kinda...creepy.  
  
"Would it kill you to provide a little white noise now and then?" he yells up toward the ceiling; his answer is the skittering feeling of having startled a sleeping cat.  
  
He's working on the formula for enhancing the output of the long-range scanners when he hears a distinctive clicking sound from the hallway. Rodney looks up as the door wiffs open, and John enters the room on his crutches, a brown paper bag clutched in his hands.  
  
"Did Carson clear you for that?" Rodney nods at the bag as John leans his crutches against the lab table.  
  
Holding on to the lip, he tries to pull over one of the chairs and nearly falls. "Carson doesn't know."  
  
Rolling his eyes, Rodney grabs the chair himself, moving it close to the table so that John can sit down and prop his feet up on it. "You know, when Carson gives you the good stuff, you're not supposed to take anything else."  
  
John looks up at him. "Who says I am?" He reaches into the brown bag and pulls out a smaller funnel of waxed paper and hands it to Rodney. "What have you got?" he asks, nodding at the white board.  
  
"Nothing yet," Rodney says, looking at the container as if there were a grasshopper in it. "But I'll have something soon."  
  
"I'm sure you will." John nods companionably and pulls out his own waxed funnel, diving into it and pulling out--a sugared donut.  
  
Rodney stares. Admittedly, it's probably more a donut hole than an actual donut, but the thought's the same. "Where did you get that?"  
  
"The cooks felt sorry for me." He pops it into his mouth, sugar going everywhere, and grins.  
  
"I thought we were out of flour."  
  
"You know how it goes. A question here, a trade there, and the proper use of props..."  
  
Rodney glances at the crutches. "You didn't."  
  
"Oh yeah, I did." John smiles like a complete and utter ass.  
  
But he's a complete and utter ass who just brought Rodney donuts. There's something to be said for that. " Are you going to just sit there while I work?"  
  
"Pretty much."  
  
Rodney turns away so John can't see him smile. "Fine, but you get to make the coffee."  
  
"Still a little gimpy here, McKay. Are you sure you want me to spill it?"  
  
Rodney huffs, then stomps over to the coffee maker and pours them each a cup. "Since you're here, you might as well be useful," he says as he shoves the cup into John's hands. "Check over the math that Simpson did and let me know what you find."  
  
John nods, his lips flickering with a small, happy smile, and Rodney pretends he doesn't hear Atlantis purr in response.  



End file.
